


The Bleeding Effect

by this_is_the_end



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: M/M, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:08:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_is_the_end/pseuds/this_is_the_end
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marco has been dead for 17 days and those have been the worst 17 days of Jean's life. Jean is still suffering through the depression and dealing with his emotions - he is a complete mess. This follows the letters/diary entries he writes to Marco upon Sasha's request as an attempt to start the healing process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letters To A Lost Lover

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is going to eventually twist into an AU in which Jean and Marco get reincarnated every life and spend each one together. This novel follows their first life together and the following two (that's as many as I have planned) will be other lives they spend together.
> 
> Obviously, if you have questions, feel free to leave a comment and ask. :)

If he had known that depression tasted as sour as it did, he would have made sure to stay by his side a little longer. If he would have known that depression and guilt could eat away at your heart until there was nothing left but a fine lining of black ash, he would have backed out. He would have reassembled his walls and he would have given the other man the cold shoulder - he would have pretended not to be in love with him. If he would have known...

"Jean."

"Not now, Sasha."

"You need to eat something."

"No. I'm fine."

He says the words through lips that had said them too many times before. He says them with the intent of them ringing true, but moments later he is bent over the window sill, puking out onto the ground. His stomach twisted into knots, he now wonders what it was like to feel something other than pain. He begins to wonder what it would be like to be able to reach back and make it all stop in its tracks.

He wondered if he could have stopped any of it if he had tried. He wonders if he would have wanted so stop any of it if he could. But then he realizes, with another heaving breath that spills out more of a lunch and dinner that he had not had, he would give up anything to do it all over again and not change a thing. He would do it all over again - to taste his love's lips against his and to know, then, that the other man was still alive. He would do it all over again to treasure every single second he could with the man and he would have taken back every single harsh remark he had ever made. He would have stopped any and all of their fights - even though there were only three - and he would have fought to make his lover's world a better place.

He would have fought for Marco's life, even if it had meant his own in return.

"Jean -"

"God damn it, Sasha! I am fine!" He shouts the words with lips that now taste like bile as he pulls away from the window, holding his stomach with one hand and wiping away any of the evidence he can from his mouth. He meets her eyes and he can tell that she knows it's all a lie. He meets her eyes and all he can see is sympathy and maybe a bit of pity - he doesn't need either from her and the thought of telling her to go fuck herself dances across his tongue like a distant memory. He holds it back and instead only shoves past her, barely making it to his bed in time to break down crying for the 17th night in a row.

It had been 17 days since Marco's death and Jean had not stopped crying since.

He knew that the others could hear him, and he knew that when he awoke from a horrid nightmare, they all heard the scream that left his lips. He knew that they could see the rings under his eyes and he knew that they all pitied him. He didn't need that - he would have told them all that if he had not been so busy trying to stay alive. He would have shouted in their faces with the temper that Marco had once said he loved - he had called it Jeans 'fire' - if every muscle in his body didn't ache. He would have beaten them all into the next century if he hadn't already lost twenty pounds and yet was somehow still walking.

He would have shown some emotion if he was still capable of that. So far, the only emotion he knew was grief, pain, suffering - whatever label you wanted to put on it. That was the only thing he had known for the past 17 days.

For the previous four years of his life, he had known only happiness and smiles. He had known only Marco's brilliant optimism and he had known only how to smile and laugh. He had learned how to memorize another body and carve it into his memory - he had learned all the spots on Marco that absolutely drove the man insane. He had learned the good and the bad quirks that the man possessed and he had learned that Marco could not stand the taste of potatoes. He had learned that Marco hated hills and mountains because he grew up there and that was where he witnessed his first Titan attack. He had learned that, if given the right joke, Marco sometimes spit juice out and sprayed it on the person sitting across from him. On more than one occasion, that person had been Jean.

And Jean hadn't minded - instead, he got Marco to wash the juice out of his hair that night and those were some of his fondest memories.  
17 days ago, that had all be ripped away from him. 17 days ago, the first scream had been wrenched from his lips and he could still partially taste it there - fragments of it greeted him every night as a midnight reminder. 17 days ago Jean had lost it all.

"Jean, you are not fine."

It was then that he came to the realization that Sasha was comforting him. He was curled around her with his head on her shoulder, sobbing like some small child. It was then that he realized he had almost begun to replace his arms with the memory of Marco's.

"Sasha -"

"Write him letters."

Jean froze and pulled away, wiping furiously at his eyes. "What?"

"When I lost... someone close to me, I wrote them letters. Every day - I told them about every single thing I knew they would love to have heard," She smiled and reached over, ruffling his hair. "So, write him letters. If only to show me that I was wrong, just try it."

She reached behind her and handed him a journal and a pen, watching as he took it with numb and shaking hands. He watched with wide eyes and said nothing as she left his side, returning to her bed with a wave thrown over her shoulder. He finally pried his eyes away from her disappearing figure and looked to the journal, studying it with eyes that were too filled with grief to notice any details. The only thing he could think was the Marco would have been the one to pick out a journal like this - it was exactly like something that Marco would have loved.

"She's insane..." Jean muttered the words under his breath and gripped the pen tighter, even though his intentions had been to set it down. He opened the journal and stared at the first page, looking at its blank canvas as if it would bite him. He took another deep breath and set the pen down, writing the first two words.

_Dear Marco,_

 

And then he paused. What was he going to say? What would he tell Marco? He was stupid to even hope to think that Marco was somehow looking down on him (yes, down - Marco was the embodiment of heaven) and would somehow know what Jean wrote. But another part of his heart began to pound quicker at the idea that Marco could see this...

That he could somehow still know what Jean was thinking.

 

_Dear Marco,_

_Sasha is making me do this. She says that it will help, that she did it when she lost someone. I guess... I guess I didn't want to do it because I still want you to be here. I still want you to be with me, by my side and I... I don't want to admit that you're dead.  
I mean, I know you are, but..._

_Anyway, it's been 17 days since we last, um, spoke. How are you? I bet God gave you an extra comfortable cloud in Heaven, didn't He? I mean, of course, you could always be partying downstairs with the Devil, but I think you and I both know how unlikely that is. Of course, if you are, um, well, that's cool too. Not going to judge my Demon boyfriend._

_I miss you._

_I really, really miss you._

_Do you remember what we last said to each other that day? I don't - and god do I beat myself up for it **every. single. day**. I want to be able to remember every single word you ever spoke to me... but I can't. I don't know if that's the grief talking or what, but I just can't hear your voice. I want to. I want to be able to hear it, taste it, **dream** it - but somehow, it won't come back to me._

_I love you, Marco._

_~Jean Kirshtein_

Jean set down the pen, stared at the page, and began to cry.


	2. Response

_Dear Jean,_

_I know you won't get this. I know you won't even have a chance of seeing it, but I still feel like I should do it. I owe a response, if nothing else. Hell, I owe you so much more than a response. I owe you my life._

_You gave me so much and I am **so sorry** that I left it all behind. I wish I could have a re-do, too._

_I guess the most important thing in this letter is just to let you know that I can see you. I can see you, Jean. I miss you, too, and I wish I could do this all over again. I wish I could come down there right now and give you my voice - the whole damned thing - and make you happy again. I wish you would stop crying._

_I wish you would stop crying, Jean._

_I love you more than you will ever know. Please keep writing these letters - it's what keeps my soul with you. Of course, you already had my heart. You've always had that and you always will._

_Please keep fighting, Jean._

_Love,  
Marco_


	3. Butterflies

It had been a few days since Jean had written anything. The journal sat on his bedside table and stared at him every night with eyes almost begging him to open it again and fill more pages with his tears. It was as if it wanted more of his depression to taint its skin.

But he couldn't bring himself to pick up the pen. He couldn't bring himself to open up to someone - something - about the demons that haunted him. He didn't want to let them out because he was afraid that they would eat him alive. He didn't want to let them about because, as it was, he was already having trouble keeping them at bay. He was barely surviving on the little sleep he got and the skimpy meals he rarely ate. He didn't want to know what would happen if he let out what was plaguing him and put it onto paper just so that it could stare him in the eye some more.

He didn't want to set them loose.

"Jean, how are you holding up?" Sasha came to sit next to him and immediately her eyes fell to his untouched food. She gave him a glare but he ignored it, not in any mood to argue over how badly he was taking care of his body. He knew - he knew because he was the one that got to look at it every time he passed a mirror.

"How do you think, Sasha?"

"You aren't writing to him, are you?" She nudged his shoulder slightly and leaned against him, hoping to comfort. Oddly, he found relief in her body heat and he began to relax a little, if only for a moment.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because it's stupid. He's dead, Sasha. Dead. He can't read the letters and I... I just can't write them."

Silence stayed between them for a moment and Jean could tell that Sasha was calculating what her response would be. She was chewing on her words as carefully as she would a potato and her brows were knitted together in concentration.

"Don't think so hard; it's dangerous," Jean made the comment with an almost dead smirk.

"If you write to him, he's still alive."

"What? Look, Sasha, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but -"

"If you write to him and relive those memories, he will still live on," Sasha locked eyes with him and Jean could feel himself shaking. "If you keep him alive, he will always be with you."

Jean felt his eyes open with shock and could taste the fear on his tongue. He felt his hands ball into fists and he could tell that he was shaking. His vision blurred as tears pricked at his eyes. She pulled him against her and ran her hands through his hair, cooing softly to him. "Jean, it's alright. Shh..."

Her arms tightened around him and all Jean could think of was Marco. He could only feel those arms around him and he clung tighter to them. He clung to them and he could feel each muscle - he could still see the perfect pale flesh contrasting against his own. He could still see his brown eyes willed with adoration and love - he could feel his heart begin to break all over again.

"I can't lose him again, Sasha." His voice cracked and lingered on a sob, tears sliding down his cheeks. Sasha ran her fingers through his hair and absorbed all his tears like a good comfort should.

"Don't tell me that - tell him."

Jean got up and left the dining hall, body still shaking and tears still running down his cheeks.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Dear Marco,_

_I miss you. I need you._

_I can't admit you're dead - I can't say it. Show me some sign - **god, please** show me something. Let me know that you're watching over me because **lord** do I need a guardian angel._

_Screw what I said before - if you're in hell, I'm coming down and kicking your ass. I'll glue a halo to your horns if I god damned have to. Please... I need someone to watch over me. Please watch over me._

_I need you - I really need you. So, please, show me something - you remember how you liked those silly white butterflies? You remember how you took me out one day and we tried to catch them.... you remember how badly we got scolded after that?_

_Show me one of those. Please._

_Love,  
Jean._

Jean held the notebook to his chest, then, watching as his tears slid down the leather. He could feel his shoulders shaking and knew then that the nightmares would be the worst tonight. He could tell that he would get no sleep and that he would not eat for at least another week.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

_Dear Jean,_

_You need to eat. You need to pull yourself together. Please.  
For me?_

_I am watching you! I am! I see you every day and I watch you ever night. I can see the nightmares are hurting you, Jean, but please - focus on the good times we had. Focus on my smile, or on my laugh. I know how much you liked those - your stupid ass couldn't stop complimenting them._

_Please, remember every single night we spent together. Think of how **great** \- amazing, fantastic, perfect - they were. Think of all the stupid, embarrassing noises you could get out of me. Only you do that, you know._

_You were always the only one._

_And you know I love you - I would send you a thousand butterflies if I could,  
~Marco._

_~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~_

"Jean." 

Jean felt his eyes peel open and his limbs stretch as a response. He turned on his side and sat up, rubbing at his eyes. 

"What?" 

"You slept through the whole night." And then Jean froze. He paused while he was still rubbing at his eyes and in the process of stretching out his legs. 

_"What?"_

"Yeah, man, you made it," Connie slapped him on the shoulder playfully and walked away. Jean let his hands fall down to his lap numbly and he stared straight ahead at the window. 

A white butterfly flew outside it, dancing around a dead and broken flower. 

"M-Marco?" 

And for once, Jean cried tears of joy. 


End file.
